


of equal value and equal size

by mimesere



Series: temples made with hands [2]
Category: Rusty Quill Gaming (Podcast)
Genre: Gen, Spoilers also for everything that went down in the Shoin Institute, The kobold cohort, Twelve headcanons in a trench coat, Yay weird theology?, specifically as it regards the kobolds, spoilers for 174
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-10
Updated: 2020-11-10
Packaged: 2021-03-08 21:07:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,931
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27483223
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mimesere/pseuds/mimesere
Summary: “Are you all right? Do you need anything?”What a stupid question. Skraak needs to have not lost two people they promised to watch out for. Skraak needs for Shoin to have never found them. Skraak needs the last few awful years not to have happened at all. Skraak needs someplace safe to sleep in their own body and to wake up still in their own body and to know where everyone is and to know that they’re safe and--“No,” is what they say instead of all that.
Series: temples made with hands [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2008324
Comments: 15
Kudos: 29





	of equal value and equal size

The perimeter is too large for Skraak to watch by themself and they have to decide where the biggest threat is going to come from. 

Most likely: the forest. 

Problem: Everywhere is forest. 

Second most likely: the sky.

Problem: It’s _the sky_. 

No one will go inside like sensible people where there are only a few openings to watch and which could be secured -- by Driaak probably, they’re the ~~second~~ best at traps, assuming Skraak’s memory can be trusted (it can’t be, not really) and assuming that Driaak remembers how (highly likely, traps are just cleverly applied mechanics). Everyone just sits outside with a fire, vulnerable and open to anything that could come along wanting to know what the big crashing noise and no-longer-flying ship were all about.

At least they’re posting a watch. The captain had gone around and found the one with the big arms and told them to watch, then gone around and found the smelly one where Draal had been, and told them to watch afterwards. She’d spotted Skraak; tilted her head and done something with her face that Skraak thinks is supposed to be approving. No tail makes it harder to be sure and they hadn’t bothered to learn it on her face the way they’d had to at the Institute.

The captain posting a watch means Skraak can leave the others to their vigil and their argument, so they do. 

They’d forgotten how much it hurts when they can’t be angry.

Nothing they can do about it now. Magic storm might as well be a cave in or a crack in the domes keeping water out. They’d all done their best. Skraak had done their best. Cel had. Hamid had. Nothing more they could do then and nothing they can do now.

Skraak climbs. They’re light enough and fast enough that they don’t have to be on the ground if they don’t want to be. The trees have branches big enough to hold them and most things don’t look up.

Big arms doesn’t notice them, even when Skraak is within stabbing distance. Useless. They’ll tell Zolf about it later, that this one shouldn’t be standing guard if they can’t notice a threat.

Maybe they can tell Hamid instead, except that’s not--

Safe is not what Hamid does. Safety is not Hamid’s job.

They’ll tell Zolf later. It’s his job to deal with everyone else. 

The temperature drops the later it gets and Skraak knows they’re getting slower with it. The coat Hamid made for them is on the ship still and they don’t want to get it if it means leaving the others vulnerable. They keep moving instead and if they circle closer to the fires when available, they can call it an exercise in remaining unseen. 

The new Wilde doesn’t notice them, distracted by the blinking lights swirling above and in front of him. Stupid. Humans can barely see at night anyway, what’s he doing ruining it by looking directly at a light? Not their problem. 

The others are still -- still! -- talking. They’ve worked their way past what’s been lost--

Sassraa called Skraak a fool and then ignored them like they weren’t a threat. Skraak had fumed silently over both things, but Sassraa’s hands moved smoothly, steadily across the machinery they were working with and Sassraa’s tail curled loosely around Skraak’s ankle like they were allowed. It was the kind of casual, affectionate touch that Skraak can’t remember getting, not in ages. But they must have, because it feels natural to want to return it, to butt their head against Sassraa’s shoulder roughly or to steal their tools and hide them away. Skraak didn’t then and regrets it, a sting somewhere in their chest at the chasm between the things they want and the things they know how to do. 

Meerk hit things with their tools. A table, a pipe, a gear. They tilted their head and listened and did it again and again and again, even when the rest of them would throw screws and bolts or whatever was nearby. 

There had been music before. Skraak knows that. They remember singing. They’d kept the singing even through the drugs but none of it feels right anymore, all tangled up in higher pitches and regular, predictable rhythms, the kind of song the crew of the airship made or what they’d heard at the Institute had before it had all gone stranger. Meerk had found different ones in different timing, something Skraak could feel separate from themself. Something that carried them along and straightened their shoulders and made them feel...right.

Should have told Meerk they liked it. Too late. Maybe.

\--and into what they want. Rest. Justice. A second chance. To be themselves again, separate from what all these other people do. 

Tadyka is watching over Meerk and Sassraa and Skraak thinks about stopping there, taking up a position beside Tadyka and just--just...

What? What can they do? What can they say that doesn’t make things worse? 

They can give Meerk other things that make sounds. They can tell Meerk that they liked the music. They can listen and dig out the memories from where they’re buried under months and years of _make yourself useful_ and _just stop thinking about it_ and the poisonously well meant _be happy_ and they can give them their memories of songs and music and dancing, ask everyone else and gather those up too. 

They can steal Sassraa’s tools. They can sleep all night and let Sassraa keep watch and tell them later that they did well, that Skraak trusts them to watch over everyone else too. It might even be true.

Skraak doesn’t know how many kobolds were lost to Shoin’s work and then to Hamid’s fire. Two more gone shouldn’t matter, but it does to them. Sassraa and Meerk mattered. 

As dark as it is, Skraak can’t see a difference between the dull gray of Meerk and Sassraa’s scales and everyone else. It had been the same late at night in the Institute, in the tunnels and cramped spaces the humans hadn’t bothered to put lights in because the kobolds could see well enough without light and the kobolds hadn’t bothered because they hadn’t been told to. They’d passed by others, as faded and colorless as the dead and they hadn’t cared.

They hadn’t cared about any of it.

They’d been _happy_. That was the worst thing.

No, the second worst thing. The worst thing is that Skraak misses it. 

Draal’s eyes gleam in the dimness. They nod at Skraak and their tail swings back and forth, slow and heavy, not bothering to clear the ground. Skraak nods back and lets their feet take them away to where they can make themselves useful.

It doesn’t take long for someone to wander away from where it’s safe. The surprise is mostly that Skraak doesn’t catch them before they cross the line into areas Skraak hasn’t checked, but Hamid is irritatingly light on his feet and quiet and Skraak can’t move him out of the place in their head that classifies him as not-a-threat. 

They _like_ Hamid. Hamid is a charming enough person. Hamid means well. Hamid is very, very sorry for what he did and Skraak absolutely believes that is true. 

The problem -- this problem, one of so many -- is that Skraak doesn’t know if they like Hamid because they like Hamid, or if they like Hamid because they’d met him when they couldn’t help themselves. All they could do was to question themselves, to try to find some kind of balance between their anger and suspicion and the instinct to give way and smooth things over. 

The problem is that they can’t seem to stop liking Hamid.

They don’t even know if they want to.

Skraak drops down on him anyway, knowing the snow is deep and soft enough here to cushion them both, half testing Hamid’s response.

Hamid doesn’t attack them. Disappointing. Skraak doesn’t know if that’s just bad reflexes or knowing that Skraak was there.

He does let out a squawk and flails a little.

“You shouldn’t be here,” Skraak grits out. 

“Oh, oh. Skraak. I was looking for you.” Hamid sits up, brushing snow off his clothes. Where his hands pass, his clothes dry and straighten until he looks neat and pressed again. Skraak wants to shove him over again until he looks real instead and then notices the streaks on Hamid’s face and the swelling around his eyes. 

All right then. Skraak tilts their head, their tail coming around to curl around their feet. They wait.

Hamid wrings his hands. Skraak wonders if he knows he does that. “Are you all right? Do you need anything?” 

What a stupid question. Skraak needs to have not lost two people they promised to watch out for. Skraak needs for Shoin to have never found them. Skraak needs the last few awful years not to have happened at all. Skraak needs someplace safe to sleep in their own body and to wake up still in their own body and to know where everyone is and to know that they’re safe and--

“No,” is what they say instead of all that.

Hamid frowns and starts to reach out, stopping himself before Skraak has to move away. “Are you--of course you are.” He looks down and wraps his arms around himself. Comfort, Skraak thinks. Hamid likes people around him. Skraak wonders if Hamid thinks of them -- of any of the kobolds -- as people like that. Probably he does. They think -- hope? -- that he’s different from the ones at the Institute. “I’m sorry,” he says.

Skraak does move back then, rocking their weight back on their feet. Hamid had saved Draal. He’d grieved Sassraa and Meerk, Skraak had seen it and heard it and felt the rightness of it. What did Hamid have to be sorry for?

“Why?” Draconic doesn’t lend itself well to questions. Orders, definitely. Statements. Those things translated easily back and forth between English and Draconic. Questions were harder, stranger; they’d come late in the learning, after a hazy time of just doing what they were told. Skraak has to work at them and they feel awkward on their tongue. But some things they can’t learn from watching and listening.

“What?” Hamid asks. “They were only here because of me--”

No. No. This is not Hamid’s. “We chose,” Skraak says. “We knew it was dangerous and we chose. Not you. Us.”

Skraak had told them all before they left the caverns. That Hamid was dragon-ish, that he’d killed the others. They’d _said_ and everyone had come anyway. And then Skraak had told them about the airship and they’d come and about the storm and they’d come through that too. That is _not Hamid’s_.

It’s not Skraak’s either.

Sassraa had called them a fool and Skraak is beginning to understand why. 

“Oh,” says Hamid in a small voice. He’s still got his arms wrapped around himself and is squeezing a little like he’s trying to hold himself together. “I’m still sorry.” He offers up the feeling like a gift, something they can share in and understand and Skraak doesn’t want it. They let the silence stretch out and, right on time, Hamid fills it. “What are you going to do?”

Skraak has no idea and they try a thing they’ve seen the others on the airship do, the shift of their shoulders that means they don’t know and have no answers and Hamid takes that as an answer anyway, sighing long and slow. His shoulders slump a little -- maybe shoulders are like tails for people without them. Something to watch for anyway -- and he nods. “It’s hard, isn’t it? And I don’t know what you all…” He trails off. “Skraak, what can I do to help?”

“How does it work?” Skraak asks. “Bringing them back.”

“I don’t know,” Hamid says slowly, but not slowly like he’s trying to be gentle. Slow like he’s working it out. Putting the pieces together until they fit. 

Skraak wonders briefly if magic is like putting a machine together. 

“The Meritocrats don’t allow for resurrection spells,” he says. “We don’t really study them at all, not like we do everything else. And it’s almost all driven by the divine.”

He goes on a bit and none if it answers the questions that are ticking away in Skraak’s mind. It’s all relics and someone named Sasha and something about money and fairness that Skraak doesn’t understand. They turn a little and start heading back toward the camp. Hamid follows, still talking about something Skraak’s paying no attention to. 

Skraak will do what they should have done earlier. The druid knows how their magic works. Carter knows what happened to them and is a kobold besides. Wilde watches everything 

They deposit Hamid back with Azu and look around for one of the druid, Carter, or Wilde. 

They find Wilde first, pretty much exactly where they expect, surprisingly alone. He’s frowning at something between his outstretched hands. It looks like a model of a person, small and detailed, pivoting slowly and silently. Also as expected, he doesn’t notice Skraak coming at all and starts when they clear their throat. The image dissolves into nothingness and Wilde bares his teeth in a smile. Skraak still doesn’t entirely understand why that’s supposed to be friendly and not a threat. Humans take it as a threat whenever Skraak does the same.

“Ah, Skraak. How may I help you?” He sounds pleasant, even to Skraak’s ear. Attentive. It makes Skraak want to take several steps back, where the light from the fire doesn’t reach. 

“The spell that brought you back,” Skraak says. They crouch down a little, balancing their carefully so they can move if they need to. “What happened?”

The thing about Wilde is that Skraak doesn’t know him other than that he was surprisingly easy to tie up and that Hamid and his friends were willing to do a great deal to bring him back from the dead. But they’re all like that mostly so Skraak isn’t sure how much of that is them and how much of it is Wilde’s actual value. 

Wilde’s expression doesn’t change much, but something goes sharp in his scent and in his eyes. “You’d know that better than I would,” he says lightly. “I was dead at the time.”

Skraak shows him their teeth. “Right,” they say and they can’t stop the agitated lash of their tail. They don’t know why they thought this would be helpful. If it weren’t for Cel, Skraak would think that not kobold people got less useful as they grew taller, as if sense were finite and diffused too much with verticality.

Skraak is already feet away by the time Wilde lets out a long breath and shakes his head. “Wait. Skraak. My apologies, that was…” He trails off there, looking the way Skraak feels whenever he has to try to translate some concept that makes perfect sense in Draconic into one of the human languages. “That was rude of me.”

Humans generally were.

Skraak doesn’t move back, but does stop where they know Wilde can only barely see them.

“I don’t think we--” Wilde stops again and makes a frustrated noise. “For me,” he says and he speaks carefully, slowly, in the same thinking tone as Hamid earlier, “there were flowers.”

_Not helpful_ , Skraak thinks, but stays silent.

“And a river. I don’t remember crossing it, but I must have done.” Wilde presses his fingertips to his eyes. It means something to him that Skraak doesn’t understand, because he hums thoughtfully and half smiles or something like it, close lipped. “He would have made sure,” Wilde says and Skraak wants to shout at him to make sense. 

“The other bank was, oh, impossibly far away. Lost in the mist. There was water rushing past, just behind my feet and grass and flowers and a strange sky ahead of me. It was very quiet.” He looks at Skraak then and Skraak feels pinned in place by it. “And then there was a bird. A thrush, I think. Or at least the sound of one. I turned to find it and the river had shrunk behind me and the bank was so close. I could have leapt across to it with room to spare. There was a road there, one of the old Roman ones, and it led up a hill and the bird was there, I know it was, on that side. And I thought, I should like to find that out of place song and perhaps climb that road and see what I could see.” Wilde goes quiet for a moment. “It was very hard. But I never thought to go back.”

“You could have stayed.” 

“It would have been easier, I think.”

“You chose,” Skraak says. The words are sharp edged. They hurt to say. Everything about it hurts.

“And kept choosing,” Wilde says. 

Silence falls over them. Not far away, but strangely muffled, Skraak can hear the others talking, a low murmur of sound that doesn’t mean anything. Wilde doesn’t rush to fill in the space with words. 

Skraak breathes for a moment. Their chest aches and they don’t know what to do with their hands, opening and closing them over and over again. They want to hold something, _do_ something. “Right,” they say. “Thank you.” To their surprise, Skraak finds that they mean it. 

If it’s a choice, Skraak owes it to Sassraa and Meerk to give it to them.


End file.
